


The Bile Rising From Your Guilty Past

by theladyscribe



Series: Tennessee [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-29
Updated: 2007-04-29
Packaged: 2018-04-10 10:09:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4387727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knew it wasn’t love, not by any stretch of the imagination, but she moved in with him three weeks later anyway. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the closest thing to happiness Jo had had in a long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bile Rising From Your Guilty Past

She met Howie Washburn at Hot Lips Houlihan’s in Sacramento. He was Air Force – for once, not a Marine – and when he put The Who’s “Baba O’Reilly” on the jukebox, Jo decided he might be all right.

She knew it wasn’t love, not by any stretch of the imagination, but she moved in with him three weeks later anyway. After all, it meant she wouldn’t have to pay for a cheap motel room she wasn’t even sleeping in anymore. Besides, the sex was good enough to keep the lingering nightmares away. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the closest thing to happiness Jo had had in a long time. Still, she knew that something would go wrong, that it would never work out the way they - the way she - wanted it to work. They should have quit while they were ahead, but both of them were too stubborn and too stupid to end it.

It was when they got in the fight that wasn’t really about Pink Floyd that Jo realized just how doomed they were. It was inevitable, of course; it had probably been building up since the first night they had met and gone back to Jo’s motel room and she had put on that hideous orange plaid flannel of Dean’s to sleep (“It was my dad’s,” she had lied, when Wash asked the next morning).

It had been a long day for both of them, but they fell into their evening ritual anyway – Jo fixed dinner, Wash did the dishes, and then they fucked hard, Jo trying, as always, to push all thoughts of Dean and Sam and her past out of her mind with the thumping rhythm of skin on skin. She didn’t know what Wash was trying to forget, or if he was even trying to forget anything – he never said and she never asked.

She was drifting deep into her thoughts when Wash leaned across her, squishing her arm and rubbing sweat across her chest and stomach. The situation wasn't that annoying until she heard the heavy, grainy, twang of “In the Flesh” begin to play. It was _The Wall_. Again.

She groaned and looked at him. “ _The Wall_ , Wash?”

He glanced at her. “What?”

“ _The Wall_?” she repeated. “Can’t you play something a little less grating?”

“You got a problem with Floyd, Jo?”

“No, Floyd’s good. But, Wash, you play this same album every night. I mean, yeah, it’s good, but it’s not that good.”

“And what would you rather listen to?”

She shrugged a little. “Well, _Wish You Were Here_ has always been my favorite.”

“Yeah, why’s that?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. It just… It reminds me of home, you know?” She didn’t add that she hadn’t really appreciated Floyd until Dean Winchester came along and forced her to listen to the album (or that Dean’s Pink Floyd 101 class had ended with a rather engaging test of how well the Impala’s parking break worked).

Wash was silent for a moment. And then out of the blue, he said, “I think you’re lying.”

Jo raised herself up to look at him. “What?”

He shifted onto his side. “You’re lying, Jo. It’s not home that song reminds you of. Hell, if it were home you missed, you’d be calling every other day if not more often than that.”

“What are you saying, Wash?”

“I’m saying you don’t love me.”

“No, I don’t,” she admitted.

“The thing I don’t understand is why you’re here, with me, when you are in love with another man.”

She glanced away. “You wouldn’t understand,” she whispered softly.

“I wouldn’t understand?” he laughed. “Don’t you dare say that, Jo, when you don’t even try to explain. Don’t you dare try to pin this all on me. I’m not the one who came into this with a ghost on my shoulders, you are. So don’t you dare even think it.”

She slapped him. “He isn’t a ghost,” she snapped.

“What the hell, Jo? Ghost, shadow, call him what you like, but he overshadows everything you do. Everything, including sex.” He moved so that he was in her face, his eyes dark with anger. “So tell me, Jo, who is it you see when you shut your eyes while we fuck? Who is it? Because it sure as hell ain’t me.”

She looked down at her hands, biting back the tears that threatened to fall. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. This was all a mistake. I’ll just – I’ll just leave, all right? I’ll leave, and you’ll never have to see me again.” She stood up abruptly and began throwing her things into her duffle. Wash merely sat on the bed, a scowl on his face. She zipped the duffle violently and rose. “Goodbye, Wash,” she said and headed for the door, her back straight.

“Good riddance,” he muttered as she yanked the door open. She let it slam behind her.


End file.
